Dahmer gave the violin an appreciative, fond smile before pushing the book off his lap. It fell between the cushion and the chair's arm rest as the massive male got to his feet. Running a paw over his head and scratching the back of his neck, he slowly made his way to the window. As he gazed beyond the glass and into the snow, Dahmer briefly regretted opting out of the walk. He studied the path that Sherlock had taken, debating whether or not he wanted to go after her. It was odd. Being with her didn't lessen how much he missed her whenever Sherlock wasn't around. Even though he knew he wouldn't go a day without spending time with her, the female's absence still caused a sharp ache somewhere in his chest. It remained until she was by his side again. It used to be almost impossible to ignore (and face it, he'd had a lot of practice trying to over the duration of their partnership), but now he found it a little easier to put aside in order to go about his own business.

Spending time with her was no longer a happy coincidence, or a result of Sherlock just being bored, needing someone to bounce ideas off whenever her skull wasn't enough. She wanted to. She had chosen him. She loved him. It was still unbelievable. Every morning he expected to wake up alone with nothing but the crushing realization that it was all a dream, but she was always there. He would move closer, gently nosing the spot at the bottom of her ear and side of her neck. She'd stir slightly, and he'd nudge her a few more times before giving in to the increasingly threatening grumbles his behaviour elicited. Sherlock did not like being woken before she was ready. But he couldn't help himself, it was impossible. The novelty of being the one she woke up with every morning was something he didn't think he'd ever get over. Looking at her wasn't enough. He had to be as close as possible, he had to touch her just to make sure that it was all real. It was. So were the threats she made that became increasingly violent and theatrical as the mornings passed.